


bloom

by pratktcven (calciseptine)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Awkwardness, Flowers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11300139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/pratktcven
Summary: In which Keith is a florist, Hunk is a tattoo artist, and everyone else is nosy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely faorism and the wonderful blackcatbone for being my betas. You guys are the real rockstars! ♥

Keith is hiding behind one of the larger floral arrangements in the window when the bell above the door rattles. The sound startles him so much that he yelps and takes a sudden step back. Shiro—who walked into the shop carrying a tray of their morning coffee—freezes at the unexpected noise. They stare at one another, wide-eyed, before Keith straightens and attempts to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Shiro blinks.

"Good morning," Keith says, aiming for nonchalant and missing by miles.

"Hey," Shiro responds. "What are you—?"

"Just checking out the hydrangea arrangement," Keith responds. The words come out of his mouth so quickly that the syllables slur together into an incomprehensible soup. Keith winces internally and thinks, _So much for subtle,_ even as he repeats himself at a slower pace.

"Riiiiight," Shiro drawls skeptically. His expression is doubtful but he accepts the obvious lie without further prodding. "Anyway, I have your latte and your cherry danish. Do you want me to put it in the back or are you going to eat it right away?"

"I was just about to strip the roses," Keith answers.

Shiro nods and sets Keith's breakfast on the large work table in the center of the room. Keith wants to walk over and devour the pastry—he hasn't eaten since late afternoon yesterday, when he microwaved some leftovers in his tiny apartment kitchen—but he forces himself to actually check the arrangements in the window display. He doesn't know why. His cover is already weak and he checked them last night before closing.

"Oh, and Keith?" Shiro says.

Keith uselessly adjusts a delicate sprig of tree fern and grunts, "Yeah?"

"If you're going to spy on the guy across the street, you might want to find a new hiding spot."

.

Several hours later, after the newly arrived roses have been stripped of all their thorns and some of their leaves, Lance swaggers into the shop. He is dressed in a deep blue button-down, pale gray slacks, and polished shoes. It is his typical attire when he has to deliver for special occasions.

"Hey, mullet man," Lance greets as he pulls his wayfarer sunglasses off and perches them atop his head. "Shiro in the back?"

Keith barely spares Lance a glance, focused on transferring some wrapped boutonnieres into a small box. Each one is a unique blend of succulents, flower buds, and filler. It was Keith's first time trying to wrangle such a combo into such a small arrangement, and despite his experience, he pricked himself more times than he is willing to admit.

"Careful there," Lance comments airly. "Don't want to ruin all your hard work."

Without taking his eyes off the arrangements, Keith hisses, "I will murder you."

Lance smirks. Shiro hired Lance about three years ago as a part-time delivery boy—as Keith preferred to stay at the store and Shiro could only carry so much with one arm—and in that time they have developed a small rivalry. At least, that's what Shiro calls it. Keith calls it Lance being as annoying as possible.

"Hey, Lance," Shiro calls as he exits the backroom. He is dressed similarly to Lance, though his shirt is white and his slacks are olive-brown. "Is the van ready?"

"Yep!" Lance pops the p and jerks a thumb at Keith. "Just waiting for Slow Poke McGee over here to finish."

Keith refrains from rising to Lance's taunt. If there's one thing he's learned over the years, it's to ignore Lance as much as possible. He also says nothing because Lance is right; Keith won't admit it to Lance, but he _should_ have spent less time daydreaming about the hot tattoo artist across the street and more time focusing on his work.

"We can start with the arrangements and the bouquets, then," Shiro says, gesturing Lance over. There are ten table-toppers carefully placed in three carrying trays, one bridal and five bridesmaid bouquets in a repurposed dishwashing rack, two enormous arrangements in heavy vases for decoration, one flower crown, and a bag of pale green rose petals. Lance immediately picks up one of the heavier trays. By the time they have everything loaded, Keith is finished with the boutonnieres.

"We'll be back in a couple hours," Shiro tells Keith. "You'll be okay?"

"I'm sure I can handle a few walk-ins," Keith assures him. Keith is polite to customers, if not a little awkward. As long as no one tries to make a lot of small talk or asks too many stupid questions, he's fine. "Besides, it's Tuesday. We're dead on Tuesdays."

"Alright, alright." Shiro smiles. "See you soon."

Then, with a two-fingered salute from Lance, they're out the door, and Keith is alone in the shop.

.

Keith works in silence for the next half hour, trimming stems and cutting filler. He and Shiro have another wedding to cater for at the end of the week, but there's only so much he can do before his shipment of white anemone, grape hyacinth, and tallow berry arrives. So instead, he focuses on an enormous centerpiece for one of the shop's regulars.

The bell tinkles as Keith contemplates throwing in some succulents he had left from the wedding party. He calls out a greeting absently.

"Hi," a deep voice responds.

Keith's mental visualization of the echeveria among the dusty miller and pale pink hydrangea is instantly interrupted by curiosity. Very few men visit _Once and Flor-All_ , and those that do are usually either teenage boys buying their first corsage or awkward husbands looking for anniversary presents. When Keith looks up, however, he is met with neither.

When Keith looks up, it's the tattoo artist from across the street.

"Hi," Keith squeaks. Heat immediately washes over his entire face. He hopes he isn't as red as the celosia bundled on the table, despite knowing from experience that he probably is. "I mean—uh—welcome? Hi. How can I— _shit_."

His hand accidentally knocks over a plastic vase filled with the roses he stripped earlier. The roses stay intact but water gets all over his workspace. Keith curses again as he grabs the vase and sets it upright.

"You okay?" the guy asks, stepping closer to the square table that takes up the central space of the shop. 

"Yeah," Keith murmurs, keeping his eyes down as he snags a roll of paper towels and cleans up the worst of it. The prep table is almost always slightly damp when in use, and spilling a little water isn't the end of the world. Keith is just flustered.

"Sorry," the guy continues, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted—sorry." There is a small cough. "Ugh, I'm really sorry. Do you want me to go?"

Keith dares a glance at the man he's been spying on since the tattoo shop opened two months ago. He's big and tall, with hair in thick waves down to his bare shoulders. Nearly every inch of his exposed skin—his throat and collarbones, his biceps, forearms, and wrists—is covered in geometric lines and angles of varying thickness. Keith had not been able to tell from a distance, but up close, the detail in his tattoo design is extraordinary.

"No," Keith says slowly.

"Okay." The other man smiles and reaches out with his free hand. His huge palm makes Keith's look tiny in comparison. "I'm Hunk Tuaolo. I work across the street.”

Keith means to reply with his own name, but instead he responds with, "I know." He realizes how creepy that sounds right after he says it and immediately tries to backtrack. "I mean—I didn't know your name before but I know _you_ because I've seen you go into the shop a couple times? Not because I've been _spying_ on you or anything but—okay, I mean, I was _curious_ when the new strip opened, but it wasn't just you! I spied on all the shops and—god, that sounds so creepy, I swear I'm not a stalker, I just—I just really need to shut up, god."

Stilling his tongue and closing his mouth takes a lot of willpower. Keith rarely rambles—he is more a man of action than a man of words—but he tends to word vomit when he's nervous.

 _Great,_ Keith thinks sarcastically as he bites down on the inside of his cheek with his molars. _Now the hot guy across the street thinks you're a fucking weirdo. Way to go._

Hunk, however, does not give Keith an odd look. His wide smile remains as he says, "It's not that creepy. You were just curious. Also, like, it wouldn't have been cool if another flower shop invaded your turf."

Some of Keith's nerves settle at the understanding in Hunk's tone. Keith knows he can be awkward. The only people he interacts with regularly are Shiro, Lance, and Allura, as well as the other members of his _dojang_. Shiro doesn't count as practice for social interaction since he’s Keith's cousin; Allura is more of a boss than a friend; and the other men at the _dojang_ are ten to fifteen years Keith's senior. The only person Keith communicates with that is actually his own age is Lance, and Lance likes to verbally despair of Keith every chance he gets.

"Anyways," Hunk says after a small, stilted pause. "I actually came over to ask a huge favor of you."

"Yeah?" Keith prompts.

"Well, I have this client who wants a floral sleeve done," Hunk explains as he pulls a large, spiral-bound sketchbook out from under his arm, its corners dog-eared from use. "She has a couple of flowers that she wants incorporated—king protea and roses, actually—but otherwise gave me a lot of free rein. And I'll be honest with you, I'm an angles and lines kinda guy. Flowers are a little outside of my comfort zone."

Keith's eyes dart back to the precise lines inked across Hunk's skin. Briefly, he wonders if the design is Hunk's own or if it is another artist's vision.

"I mean, I could google bouquets, but I don't like doing that," continues Hunk. "It feels like I'm being disingenuous. Which is stupid, I know. Everyone gets tattoo ideas from the internet nowadays. But, like, it's my job to make it authentic."

"I understand," Keith says. A lot of people come into the store with pictures on their phones, which is fine to start; it's the people that insist on an exact replication that frustrate Keith. His job is to create, not copy. "So you need help constructing a bouquet?"

"Yes," Hunk says emphatically.

"Okay," Keith answers. "Well, I can tell you right now that I don't have any king protea on hand. That's a rarer flower that needs to be special ordered. I do, however, have a lot of other foliage that will work with it. Did your client say what kind of roses she wanted?"

"No." Hunk shakes his head. "Just roses."

Keith nods once before he walks over to the cooler against the back wall. After opening the door, he confidently grabs blue thistle and white wax flower, seeded and silver dollar eucalyptus, laurel-leafed cocculus, peonies, and pale cabbage roses. He only picks a stem or two of each, then brings them over to Shiro's side of the prep table.

"There," Keith says after he's gently arranged them on the uncluttered space. "In a bouquet, the king protea is generally in the center or bottom right." Then he continues, pointing to the respective plants as he talks, "The cabbage roses and peonies are also going to be centered or adjacent to the the king protea. The blue thistle and wax flowers are filler for any gaps, and the rest would be used to frame the flowers. Be careful with the seeded eucalyptus, though; it's pretty drapey."

"Wow," Hunk says when Keith has finished his explanation. That one syllable makes Keith realize that he probably went overboard, something he knows he tends to do.

"Sorry," Keith mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Those are just what I would use if I were making an arrangement. I can use something else if you don't like it, or—"

"No!" interrupts Hunk. "No, Keith, no—this is super awesome, thank you. I'm really impressed. Like, I know you work here, but like, you didn't even have to _think_ about what I needed. Are—are _all_ the arrangements in the shop yours?"

"Most of them." Keith can feel his cheeks heat up for the third time in less than ten minutes and curses his fair skin. "Shiro—my cousin, he owns the shop—he isn't great at it."

That is an understatement. Shiro is okay at re-creating bouquets from photographs, which is what he did before he hired Keith, but he's terrible at making something from scratch. Now Shiro only puts the simple stuff together, such as the ever popular dozen roses.

"That is _really_ cool," Hunk gushes as he steps closer to the prep table. "These textures are _amazing_."

Keith has a hard time looking at the bright sincerity of Hunk's smile, so when he mutters, "Thank you," he says it to Hunk's massive shoulder. Not that it helps. The muscle in Hunk's arm tightens beneath his skin and Keith's mouth instantly goes dry. 

"Mind if I sit here?" Hunk asks. He gestures to the side of the table Keith carefully laid the flowers down upon. "To sketch them? I mean, I can just take some pictures if you don't want me taking up your space. I know some people work better with privacy."

"No," Keith says as he tears his eyes away from Hunk's enormous biceps. "I'm good." He clears his throat as he becomes aware of how strained his voice sounds. "You can stay."

"Dude, you're a freaking lifesaver," Hunk praises as his smile grows impossibly wider. "Seriously. I know it sounds weird, but it's so much easier to get a feel for something in real life than from a picture. And all I know about flowers is that they're pretty. So thanks, man. Thank you. You're really saving my butt."

Keith's embarrassed blush deepens. It is not an attractive look for him—his blushes are stark and they fill in splotchy over his flat cheeks—but it feels as though that's all he’s been capable of doing since Hunk walked through the door. 

"Yeah, man," Keith mutter, ducking his head in a futile attempt to hide the redness from Hunk's eyes. At this point, the other man probably already thinks he has some sort of skin condition, or is part tomato. "No problem."

.


	2. Chapter 2

They work in relative silence, a quiet upset only by the snip of Keith's shears, the rasp of Hunk's soft lead pencils, and the occasional question. 

"Hey, Keith," Hunk says several minutes after settling onto Shiro's stool. Keith looks up from his work—which he was struggling to focus on instead of Hunk—and tilts his head wordlessly. "Sorry to interrupt but, uhh, can I pick these up? I want to sketch them from different angles."

"Yeah," Keith replies. "Go ahead."

Hunk grins at him and gently picks up a stem. He holds it carefully as he examines it, sketching quickly and from several different angles.

"Do these come in different colors?" Hunk asks when the blue thistle is pinched between his fingers. "I mean, not this one, specifically, but all of them. My client was still trying to decide between grayscale and color, and I don't wanna make something yellow when it should only be red, you know?"

"Well, the thistle you're holding is always blue or purple, in any shade between the two," Keith answers. "The wax flowers—the tiny ones with the needle-like leaves—are commonly white or pink or magenta, though I have seen variants in pale green or red. As for the cabbage roses, those can be pretty much be any warm pastel color you want, like pink or peach, yellow or ivory."

Hunk writes down Keith's notes in the margin of his sketchbook, tongue between his teeth in concentration. He circles a few and draws arrows to some of his drawings; Keith recognizes the motions, but he is too far away to see any real detail.

"What about the filler?"

"There isn't any variation on those."

Hunk hums a thank you as he jots down a few more words at the bottom of the page, then flips the sketchbook over to a clean sheet.

"Okay, last one," Hunks says. "Do these flowers have any special or secret meaning?"

Keith snorts at the question. Hunk grins wryly at the derisive sound, as though to say, "That bad, huh?" It is very different from the sour frowns Keith usually receives from customers when he is impolite, but it is enough of a reminder for him to feel a tiny pinprick of guilt.

"Sorry," Keith murmurs, dropping his gaze to the echeveria, hydrangea, and dusty miller laid out before him. Sometimes he forgets that not everyone has been a florist since they were seventeen. "It's just—well, nobody really cares about flower language anymore."

"Really?" Hunk blinks. "What about, like, roses and stuff?"

"Those are an exception," Keith admits. "Red roses for love. Yellow roses for friendship. But those are mainstream enough that people buy them by the stem or by the dozen if they're trying to say something. Otherwise it's all about the recipient's personal taste."

"Do you get a lot of clients who ask about it?"

Keith shrugs. "Some. Shiro's the one who deals with most of the orders, and he always tells them that what's important is _who_ it's for, not _what_ it's for."

"I get that," Hunk says with a nod. "A good tattoo is the same way. It's how you feel about your tattoo, not how other people do."

Keith's eyes dart from Hunk's face to the intricate lines covering Hunk's skin. They're gorgeous, straight lines on an organic, curving canvas, and they manage to be both delicate and masculine. Surely the tattoos mean something—Hunk does not seem like the kind of person to do something without purpose, even if that purpose were for aesthetic—but by the time Keith gathers enough courage to ask, Hunk has returned to his sketchbook.

Briefly, Keith regrets his inability to make conversation. He wants to talk to Hunk and learn more about him. He even tries to think of something to say. Everything he comes up with sounds stilted though, and if it's awkward inside his own mind, Keith can't imagine how his thoughts would flounder off his tongue. So instead of speaking, he heaves a silent sigh, and returns to his arrangement.

.

Keith does not know how long Hunk sketches. There is no clock in the shop, and Keith's cellphone is plugged into the outlet by the register. He cannot gauge a time by his arrangement either, since his normal efficiency is hindered by the distraction of the man across from him. If Keith were to hazard a guess, however, he would say that Hunk spends an hour perched on Shiro's stool before he hops off and stretches.

The hem of Hunk's pale blue, pineapple-and-palm-tree print muscle tank rides up over the swell of his belly. Keith's gaze sweeps over Hunk's exposed skin, before his common sense reminds him that it's impolite to stare. 

"Get everything you need?" Keith blurts in an attempt to act casual.

"I think I did!" Hunk beams in reply. "I have enough rough sketches to get the feel of the flowers. Now I just need to google the main flower. After I do that, I can start fitting it all together and make some concrete designs."

Keith takes a sprig of dusty miller from his arrangement, mumbles, "Sorry I don't have any king protea for you," then sticks the silver-green foliage right back where it was.

"Dude," Hunk interjects emphatically. "You have helped me so much, you don't even know. I'm not kidding when I say this is my first floral tattoo. I didn't even know where to _start_ before I came over. I owe you big time, seriously."

"You don't owe me anything," Keith says, his shoulders tightening at Hunk's praise. He loves his job and he knows that he has a good eye, but compliments are difficult to accept when he hasn't really _done_ anything. "It was fun."

"Pretty sure I still owe you," Hunk responds with a smile. "How about I buy you lunch at Xi's?"

The brittle tension in Keith's shoulders slips down his spine. While he cannot think of anything better than having lunch at Xi's Noodle Emporium, eating with and talking to the man he has been harboring a crush on for the better part of two months, he also cannot think of anything worse. The tables at Xi's are tiny; if Keith spends an hour knocking his knees against Hunk's legs, he is sure that his face will become hot enough to spontaneously combust.

So instead of accepting Hunk's offer, Keith shakes his head and _lies_.

"Sorry," he declines. "Shiro and Lance are going to be back soon, and they said they were going to pick up lunch. But—umm—thank you?"

"Oh." Hunk blinks. "Okay." He pauses, his eyes flickering over Keith's face. Briefly, Keith wonders if Hunk can tell that he isn't telling the truth; Shiro has always maintained that Keith is a terrible liar, but Keith doesn't know how accurate the statement is considering that Shiro is also his cousin. "What about some other time this week?"

At this point in their conversation, Keith's back is so tense that if anyone touches him, he may snap in half. He wants to say yes—he really, really does—but he also knows what would happen if he did. He is not good at maintaining conversation, only killing it, and he balks at the thought of their easy rapport dying an awkward but inevitable death.

"Sorry," Keith says again, though this apology sounds much more sincere and much less panicked. "I have a shipment tomorrow and a wedding on Sunday, so I'll be really busy until then."

This, at least, is not a lie. Keith will be consumed by work the moment he receives his awaited order.

"Oh." Hunk's smile dims a little and his gaze dips down. "I guess it is wedding season, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Keith affirms. "It is."

Silence descends and stretches into several very uncomfortable seconds. It is exactly what Keith had been trying to avoid with his first rejection, but he supposes that the presence of such discomfiture only confirms his previous surety of disaster. 

"Well, uhh, you gotta do what you gotta do, I guess." Hunk tucks his notebook firmly between his bicep and his torso, then reaches up and scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. "I should get back to the shop and get started on some real sketches. Not that these aren't real, because they're obviously there on the paper, but like—more together? I—shit—I already told you that. About putting it into a single piece. Right?"

"Right," Keith says.

"Because I _thought_ I did, but then I just blanked? Or whatever. But—uhh—thank you? No, that came out wrong." Hunk clears his throat. "I mean, thank you again. For the help. That I needed. For my… client." Hunk visibly winces as he stumbles over his own words, his wide, handsome face momentarily pinched. "Wow, okay, this is not how I imagined this going."

The last statement is muttered beneath Hunk's breath, giving Keith pause. He is a little perplexed by the devolution of Hunk's confidence into disjointed rambles, and this confusion makes him tilt his head and ask, "Imagine what going?"

"Nothing!" Hunk blurts. The hand on the back of his neck flies upwards into the space between them, his palm out and fingers splayed as though to physically deflect Keith's suspicion. "Nothing at all! I was just—just talking to myself! Ha! But seriously, this is me leaving. Right now. You're busy, I've taken up way too much of your time and—bye. Yes. Thank you very much for your time, I hope the rest of your afternoon is great, good luck with the wedding."

After this last sentiment falls out of his mouth, Hunk nods to himself, turns around jerkily, and all but speed-walks to the door with his shoulders squared stiffly and his head held unnaturally high. Then—when his free hand comes into contact with the exit's stainless steel push bar—he stops.

Pauses for the space of a heart beat.

Looks over his bare, tattooed shoulder and grins, small and sheepish and warm.

"Bye," Hunk says.

"Bye," Keith echoes.

Then the bell above the door rattles, and Hunk is outside, skin cast golden beneath the summer sun. Keith watches as he checks for traffic; as he briskly jaywalks across the undivided four lane street; as he approaches the tattoo parlor. He does not look back before he disappears, the door swinging shut behind him, and Keith mentally chides himself for the stab of disappointment he feels. Keith is the one with the inconvenient crush, not Hunk, and no matter how much Keith wants him to, Hunk isn't obligated to cast a final look at the floral shop…

Or ask Keith out to lunch for a third time.

"Stupid," Keith mutters to himself as he drags his gaze away from the tattoo parlor's closed door and back towards the table. He needs to finish his arrangement, not stand in the middle of the shop and overanalyze every word he and Hunk exchanged. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…"

And with that mantra in his brain, Keith grabs his trimming scissors from his apron pocket, and gets back to work.

.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my voltrash blog, [@pratktcven](http://pratktcven.tumblr.com/about)


End file.
